But he was still there with his mocking eyes fixed on hers. "Perhaps we shall see him at the concert?" he suggested, "sitting in the front row with his tragic and accusing eyes reproaching me?" "How can you jest?"—she turned on him in a fury—"how can you turn this terrible wrong into a subject for amusement? Surely you are not completely lost to shame." He rested his elbow on the top of the wall and dropped his chin between his hands. When he spoke, it was less to her than to himself. "Ran away with his wife, eh? Come, that’s not so bad, but Bill couldn’t have thought of that himself. He’s got a scar along the side of his head—did you notice that Miss Terrill? No? Well, I did that," he said complacently. "Yet Bill didn’t mention it, that’s his forgiving nature. Did he tell you I jailed him for promiscuous shooting? Well, I did, and when the governor revised the sentence of death passed upon him, I organized a lynching party to settle with Bill for keeps. "They smuggled him out of the gaol before my procession arrived. Bill never told you about that episode. H’m! that’s his modesty. I suppose he’s forgotten all these little acts of unfriendliness on my part. The only thing that worries him now is—_put up your hands—quick_!" She saw the Duke’s face suddenly harden, his eyes narrow, and heard his lazy drawl change in an instant to a sharp metallic command. Most important of all his right hand held a wicked looking revolver. She was standing before the conservatory door as the duke was speaking and apparently the revolver was pointed at her. A voice behind her reassured her. "Say, Jukey," it drawled, "put down your gun—there’s nothin’ doin’." She turned to face Mr. Slewer with his hands raised protestingly above his head, injured innocence in every line of his face, and hanging forward from the inside pocket of his jacket the butt of a Colt’s revolver, half drawn. IV "Come further into the garden," invited the Duke with his most winning smile, "that’s right, Bill. Now just take that gun out of your pocket and drop it into the grass. If the muzzle comes this way poor Mrs. Slewer will be a widow. Thank you. You heard what I said about Mrs. Slewer?" he asked. Bill, unabashed, made no reply, but looked up at the smiling face of the man he hated, with passionless calm. The girl, fascinated by the deadly play, watched. "How long have you been married?" asked the Duke. "Can these things be arranged in State’s prison?" "Say," said the unperturbed Mr. Slewer, "you’re fresh ain’t ye,—what’s the use of gay talk anyways—I’m layin’ for you, Jukey." "And I ran away, did I?" said the other, ignoring Mr. Slewer’s speech, and dropping his voice, "scared of Bill Slewer of Four Ways?" "Seems like it," said the man coolly. "Are you the only cattle thief I ever jailed?" asked the Duke; then of a sudden he let go the mask of languor and the words came like the passionless click of machinery.